A Tracers Trilogy

by Laura Griffin

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m here to see Alex Lovell.”

  “About?”

  “I have an important matter to discuss with him.”

  The woman came around the desk and stood in front of Sophie. She had curly dark hair that fell to her shoulders, brown eyes, and no makeup. Good cheekbones, though. Nice lips, too, although she didn’t look like the collagen type.

  Sophie let her gaze flick down to the woman’s faded jeans. Not much of a dress code here, but then she’d heard that about Austin.

  “Is he in?” Sophie asked.

  The receptionist tipped her head to the side and gazed up at her. “Do I know you from someplace?”

  Sophie smiled. “It’s possible. Have you been to the Velvet Note?”

  The woman tucked her hands into her back pockets. “You’re the singer. I remember you now.”

  This was going better than she’d hope. Maybe this woman would put in a good word for her.

  “I’m Sophie Barrett,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Alex Lovell.” She gave Sophie’s hand a firm shake. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “Uh…” She glanced around, flustered. Was this a joke? Mitch had said he wanted to kill Alex Lovell. He’d said he wanted to strangle him with his bare hands.

  He had said “him,” hadn’t he?

  “You’re Alex Lovell?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Did you need something?” The woman glanced at her watch. “Because I’m on my way out, actually. I’ve got to be somewhere, and I’m already running late.”

  Panic surged through her. “I need a job,” she blurted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I lost my job because of Alex Lovell. You. And I need a place to work now.”

  And that had come out all wrong. Sophie closed her eyes and clasped her hands together. Desperation was not attractive.

  When she opened her eyes again, Alex had her arms folded over her chest and was watching her with a chilly expression.

  Sophie took a deep breath. “Let me start over.”

  “Please do.”

  “Mitch Kohl used to be my boss. After you came to… visit him last month, he was arrested. Put in jail.” Sophie paused for emphasis.

  “That’s generally what happens when people get arrested. You want to explain how that means I owe you a job?”

  “I worked at Mitch’s club. It’s closed down now because he can’t make the rent.”

  “Mitch Kohl’s a lying deadbeat who owes twenty-two months’ back child support. He’s got three kids living in Austin. Did you know that?”

  Sophie stepped back, away from the harsh tone. “I wasn’t aware—”

  “The Velvet Note’s in Dallas, anyway. What are you doing down here?”

  “I’m here for the music,” Sophie said, before she could censor herself. But maybe honesty was her best strategy. This woman wasn’t going to be swayed by cleavage and guilt. “I’m trying to get my singing career started. Austin’s got a big music scene.”

  “And you figured you’d sweet-talk me into letting you work for me.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Well.” Sophie straightened her shoulders. “I have a minor in photography.”

  Alex’s eyebrows arched.

  “I figure you take a lot of pictures? Of, you know, people cheating on their wives? Stuff like that?”

  “Actually, most of my clients are insurance companies,” she said. “And I take my own pictures. What else you got?”

  Sophie darted her gaze around the office. She noticed the piles of papers, the overflowing trash can, the software manuals stacked on the floor beside an empty Dell computer box.

  “I’m good with computers,” she lied. “And I’m super organized. I love to file.”

  Alex laughed at this, and Sophie realized she’d gone too far.

  Still, she seemed to be considering it.

  “You must really want a job,” Alex said.

  “I do.”

  “How old are you?”

  She thought about tacking on a few years. But this woman was a PI. “Twenty-three,” she answered.

  Alex looked her over again, and her gaze lingered on Sophie’s French manicure. “Look, Sophia—”

  “Sophie.”

  “I actually do need an assistant. But I run a lean operation here. The wages are low, the hours suck. And I know PI work might sound glamorous, but it’s really pretty boring. I doubt you’d be up for it.”

  Alex’s candor only made her want the job more. She could almost feel it within her grasp, when just minutes ago, she’d thought she’d blown it.

  “It sounds perfect,” Sophie told her. “I want to live in Austin and pay my bills. You need an assistant. I’m not looking for a career or anything—just a day job.”

  “That your Tahoe?”

  “Huh?”

  Alex peered around her. “On the street there. Is it yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mind using it for work?”

  She had it! “Not at all.”

  “Good. I’ll need the keys.” Alex held out her hand. “And your license, too. I need to run a background check.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Look, I’ve got to be somewhere ten minutes ago. I’m not about to leave you here with eight thousand dollars’ worth of office equipment unless I have some collateral. You want the job or not?”

  “I want it.”

  “Good. Then you can lend me your car. I’ll call you from the road, fill you in on everything else while I drive. Answer the phone and be ready to take notes.”

  Sophie felt like she was stepping off the edge of a stage into thin air. A total stranger was going to hire her for a job she couldn’t do and drive away in her car. It was crazy.

  She dropped her keys into Alex’s hand.

  It wasn’t as if business could get any worse, Alex mused, as she headed across town in Sophie Barrett’s Tahoe. Why not hire an underqualified, overdressed office assistant?

  Alex was ninety-nine percent sure she was going to regret this decision, but the thought of spending yet another day melting in the Saturn had pushed her over the edge.

  The Tahoe had possibilities. The Tahoe had black-tinted windows, a spacious backseat, and plenty of room to spread out a computer during endless surveillance gigs. And best of all, it was registered to someone besides Alex, so that if anyone—say, Craig Coghan—should happen to see it around, he wouldn’t link it back to Lovell Solutions.

  Alex turned into the parking lot of Coghan’s gym and maneuvered the hulking SUV between two cars. She spotted the white Dodge pickup on the opposite side of the lot.

  Right on schedule. Looked like the guy’s routine hadn’t changed since Alex had run surveillance on him back in the fall. If he remained true to form, he’d spend another twenty minutes here at the gym before reporting in for work at APD. Like most cops Alex knew, Coghan’s schedule tended to start out predictable, then get increasingly chaotic as the day wore on, meaning that if Alex hadn’t caught up to him by lunchtime, it was a good bet she wouldn’t find him until he returned home for the night.

  Alex tucked her hair into a baseball cap, entered the gym, and rode the elevator up to the second floor, where the workout room overlooked downtown traffic. She darted her gaze around. Glass, mirrors, and Spandex as far as the eye could see.

  “Can I help you?”

  She turned her attention to the guy sitting at the reception counter behind a stack of towels. “Hi, there.” She smiled. “I wanted to inquire about a membership here.”

  “Sure.” He pulled a brochure out of a drawer and slid it across the counter while Alex stared at his enormous pecs. The kid was practically bursting at the seams.

  “Your first consultation is free,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  She spotted Melanie’s husband at the far s
ide of the room, leaning on a treadmill and talking to a brunette in yoga pants. Coghan was every bit as muscular as Alex remembered him, possibly even more so. Had he been spending a lot of time at the gym since his wife left? Alex tugged the bill of her cap lower and watched him, trying to determine whether he was coming or going.

  “Is that a yes?”

  She snapped her gaze back to Steroid Boy. “Excuse me?”

  “Would you like to schedule a free consultation?”

  Coghan picked up a water bottle from the floor and started walking toward Alex. Then he turned into the men’s locker room.

  “I’ll think about it.” Alex slid the brochure into her pocket and ducked back into the elevator.

  She needed three minutes. Five, at the most.

  She tried to look nonchalant as she approached Coghan’s pickup. The truck bed was empty except for a crushed beer can. She glanced inside the cab. No alarm, which was a pleasant surprise. Alex slipped a Slim Jim from her purse. With well-practiced movements, she slid the tool between the window and the weather stripping, caught the lock rod, and popped the lock.

  It was your typical man’s truck cab—empty fast-food cups in the console, McDonald’s wrappers on the floor, a phone charger plugged into the lighter. She checked the glove box and the console. Nothing incriminating.

  Alex sighed. What had she expected? Some empty gas cans, maybe? Bloody handprints on the dash? The guy was a cop, and she gave him just a bit more credit.

  Alex reached under the passenger seat and felt around for a smooth metal surface. After finding one, she pulled the GPS from her purse and attached the magnetic mount box to its new hiding spot. The device was motion-sensitive and would come to life whenever the truck started moving, which would preserve its battery life. She glanced up at the row of windows facing the street. Time to clear out. She slid from the cab, relocked the door, and returned to her car.

  Now she’d track him. She wanted to see his every move. Arrogance was Craig Coghan’s Achilles’ heel, according to Melanie, which meant he thought he could get away with anything. Including murder.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nathan was up to his knees in garbage when his phone buzzed for the second time in ten minutes.

  “It’s yours, Dev,” his partner called from a neighboring Dumpster.

  Another buzz.

  “Goddamn it,” Nathan muttered, snapping off a Latex glove. He dug the phone out of his pocket and checked the screen. Alex. He’d missed two calls.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded, and was answered by silence. “Alex?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, it’s just… you sound upset. Did I interrupt something?”

  “No.”

  “Having a bad day?”

  Nathan gazed down at the putrid remnants of food and grease leaking from the trash bags. “Everything’s peachy. Why?”

  “I just got a lead. On that thing we talked about last night.” Alex obviously thought she needed to be guarded on the phone with him. “I thought we’d get together later, maybe compare notes.”

  Compare notes. That assumed Nathan had something to compare. He didn’t. His whole morning had been derailed by a convenience store holdup. After hours of legwork he’d turned up the terrific lead that some homeless guy had seen someone who might fit their shooter’s description tossing something that could have been a handgun into this Dumpster.

  “I’m in the middle of something,” Nathan said, nudging aside an empty milk carton with his shoe.

  “Well, how about dinner? We could meet somewhere and exchange information. I know a good Chinese place—”

  “No,” he cut in. He was standing on top of enough rotting Chinese food to feed an army of roaches. “Anything but Chinese. And it’ll have to be late. I’ve got about ten things to do before I can knock off, so—”

  “How about the Smokin’ Pig at nine o’clock?”

  She’d read his mind. Or maybe she just remembered it was the place he’d taken her the night they’d first met. He’d bought her a beer. Then she’d sat there and cracked one of his cases wide open. Nathan had been impressed. More than impressed—he’d been intrigued. And he’d been meaning to call her ever since to ask her out on a date.

  But he hadn’t done it, and now she’d beaten him to the punch.

  Although, this meeting tonight didn’t seem like much of a date. Her voice was all business, and she wanted to “compare notes.” Didn’t that sound exciting?

  “Nathan? You there?”

  He glanced at the rank, unidentifiable ooze clinging to his pant leg. “Make it nine thirty,” he said. “I’ve got to run home first and shower.” And it wouldn’t hurt to toss his clothes in an incinerator.

  “Nine thirty, then. Don’t be late,” she said, and clicked off.

  Nathan stuffed the phone back into his pocket as Will Hodges poked his head over the side of the rusty Dumpster.

  “Hot date?” his partner asked.

  “Nah, just work.”

  Hodges lifted an eyebrow. The kid could smell a lie from a mile off. It was uncanny. And one of the reasons he made a good homicide detective, despite his age.

  “You know, Courtney’s got this friend—”

  “Forget it,” Nathan said.

  “So it isn’t just work.”

  Nathan glanced at Hodges, who, sure enough, was smirking at him.

  “It’s nothing,” Nathan said. “Just Alex Lovell. I’m helping her out on something.”

  But Hodges still didn’t look convinced.

  Screw it. Maybe the kid could help him.

  “Hey, you ever heard anything about Craig Coghan?” he asked, tugging the glove back on so he could keep digging.

  “Narcotics guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t really know him,” Hodges said. “Good reputation, though. What’s he need with a PI?”

  “His wife hired her.” Nathan crouched down to lift up a black plastic bag. About a hundred glass bottles cascaded out, and the smell of stale beer blended with the ripe mix of rainwater and garbage.

  “Thought he was divorced,” Hodges said, his voice echoing from inside the metal box.

  “More like separated, I think. You haven’t heard any dirt on him?”

  “I haven’t heard much, except that he got promoted last fall to head up the narco squad. Hey, I found something.”

  “What?” Nathan stood up and craned his neck to see into the neighboring Dumpster.

  His partner knelt amid the garbage bags, beaming. He held up a nickel-plated pistol with a wilted lettuce leaf stuck to the barrel.

  “Money,” Hodges said proudly.

  “Yep.” And it was. They had their murder weapon. Nathan yanked off his gloves and shook loose the egg shell attached to his shoe. All they needed now was a shooter and a confession, and they’d have this case wrapped up with a big red bow.

  Nathan wasn’t holding his breath.

  For the second evening in a row, Alex pulled up to Nathan’s house and parked beneath the giant pecan tree that shaded his front yard.

  Pecan trees, landscaping. The place was so domestic, it was hard to believe a jaded homicide detective lived here. Alex had never owned a house. She didn’t cook or entertain, didn’t like gardening. She spent most of her time working and thought of her one-bedroom apartment as a convenient place to sleep and stash her things.

  Alex tossed her baseball cap on the Saturn’s passenger seat and finger-combed her hair. She considered lipstick, then ditched the idea. This was business. Period. She got out of the car and slammed the door.

  The house looked dark, but Nathan’s Mustang was in the driveway. She walked up the sidewalk and a floodlight blinked on, startling her. She looked for movement behind the windows flanking the front door but didn’t see any. Alex rang the bell and waited. And waited. And rang again. A light switched on in the hallway. The door swung open, and Nathan was standing there, a blue bath towel slung low around his waist.

  “You didn’t get m
y message?” He stepped back to let her in, and she tried not to gape at his nicely sculpted chest as she entered the house.

  “I did get it,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. This can’t wait until tomorrow.”

  He closed the door and strode past her into a darkened hallway. “You’ll have to talk fast, then. I’m on my way up to Round Rock for a suspect interview.”

  He’d said as much in his phone message half an hour ago when he’d canceled their dinner plans. Alex had been disappointed, and not just because she had something important to show him. She’d spent her entire day conducting surveillance, and she’d been looking forward to some conversation.

  The man she’d wanted to converse with led her back to the master suite. Like the rest of the home’s interior, it had “bachelor pad” written all over it. Alex hesitated a moment before stepping into his bedroom. It felt steamy and smelled like Irish Spring from his shower. A black floor lamp stood in the corner, providing the only light. Not much furniture to speak of—just a bureau and a king-size bed with a simple black spread.

  Nathan stood at his closet with his back to her. “My day got trashed. Literally.” He grabbed some clothes and walked into the bathroom. “Sorry about dinner, but there’s nothing I can do.” He swung the bathroom door closed, but left a slight opening so she could hear him. “It’s taken us weeks to locate this kid, and we need a confession out of him.”

  Alex was well aware of Nathan’s reputation. He’d been nicknamed the Priest—not because of any kind of devout lifestyle, but because of his legendary ability to get a confession. Nathan had the gift of gab and a knack for getting people to talk to him. Alex wasn’t sure how he did it, but she’d fallen for his techniques a time or two herself.

  “So what’d you need to tell me?” he asked over the buzz of an electric razor.

  Alex looked around uncertainly. No chair, so she perched on the corner of his bed, resisting the urge to glance at the sliver of reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  She had so many things to tell him, she didn’t quite know where to begin. So she started at the top.

  “I checked out that attorney.” She heard a towel hitting the floor and pants being pulled on.